Blind In Texas, Part Two

My Friday at SXSW pretty much defies easy description — the evening was packed with the most music-related fun I've had in ages, but the day that preceded it was one of the most challenging and stressful workdays of my life, one which actually saw me come THISCLOSE to slugging it out with a drunk guy twice my size.

It didn't help, of course, that I woke up with the spins, which I immediately blamed on Randy's bright idea for us to do shots of Don Julio tequila at La Zona Rosa the night before. (Randy, feeling not much better, pleaded no contest.) Disgusted by the idea of food, but knowing that I had to eat something if I was gonna get through another afternoon of non-stop interviews, I had a small lunch of white bread and brisket  — no stomach-riling BBQ sauce this time! — and got my interview notes together. The bands started showing up around 12:30, and for the next five hours it was all I could do to keep focused on the interviews while all kinds of chaos exploded all around me. (Not to mention inside my skull.)

You see, some nameless brain surgeon had come up with the bright idea of having us set up our interview station in the same room where xBox Live was demoing their Rock Band game, which meant that we were constantly bombarded with karaoke-esque performances during our interviews. Not only was this incredibly distracting for both me and my interview subjects, but I often couldn't even hear the answers of the more soft-spoken ones; rather than follow up on what they were saying, I just nodded my head, smiled, and moved on to the next question.

Still, there were fun moments scattered throughout the afternoon. The lovely ladies of SoCal punk band Civet gave a hilarious interview, as did High On Fire and Pride Tiger (the latter of whom is my new favorite band — more on them in a couple of posts), and one of the guys from British Sea Power playfully challenged me to a Cumbrian wrestling match. Despite the encouraging chants of "Dan! Dan! Dan!" from my co-workers, I respectfully declined; not only was I sure that the BSP dude would totally kick my ass, but the odds of me puking all over the floor during the match were uncomfortably high at that particular instant.

Thankfully, all of the artists I interviewed on Thursday and Friday were really cool. We kept waiting for some of them to act like assholes or primadonnas, but they never did — even on those occasions when four bands showed up at once for the same interview slot. Randy somehow managed to diffuse those particular situations with a combination of gentle diplomacy and the offer of free beer; unfortunately, I also had a situation of my own to deal with, which beer and sweet-talk did little to sort out...

During an interview with the very cool but very soft-spoken DC pop duo Georgie James, a guy who works for my company drunkenly wandered over to our interview station and started fucking with me. With all the extraneous video game noise going off at deafening levels behind me, I was struggling to keep my composure as it was, and this ass-clown kept butting his head in and shouting things like, "Ask them what really pisses them off!"  He clearly thought he was being funny, but none of us were laughing. I whispered a few "Hey, man, that's not cool"s to him, but he grew more obnoxious as the interview went along. He started tapping me on the left shoulder while standing to my right; thinking it was Randy giving me the "five minute warning," I looked over to my left; "It's just me, Bro!" the ass-clown chortled in my right ear.

This was the last straw, and as soon as I wrapped the interview, I completely went off on the guy. I'm generally a friendly, good-vibes kinda guy, and I reckon that only a small percentage of my friends and acquaintances have ever seen me blow my top. But you can only push me so far — and like Doc Bruce Banner, you wouldn't like me when I'm angry. In fact, I can't remember the last time I unleashed a tirade like this on someone, however deserving. It was only about halfway through that I realized that the guy was a good head taller than me and pretty bulky; he probably could have knocked me down with a single punch, but he was so stunned by the force of my rage that he just stood there and took it. That is, until I turned away to apologize to the Georgie James folks; at that point, the ass-clown got in Randy's face with a whole "Don't you know who I am?" rant. "Um, just so you know," Bryan whispered to me, "that guy is one of the company's longest-serving employees."

Honestly, I didn't give a shit. I'm an easy-going guy, but I take a lot of pride in what I do — and doing my job right requires preparation and focus. Whether you're this guy or Mother Teresa, if you show up drunk off your ass and start screwing with my interview, I'm gonna call you out, simple as that. I can totally understand now why Pete Townshend booted Abbie Hoffman off the stage at Woodstock, or kicked that fire marshal at the Fillmore East...

As of this writing, there hasn't been any real fall-out from the incident, other than my co-workers making a collective mental note that Dan's patience has its limits. But we'll see what happens...

Comments

[moondog]

What an.asshat. Not you, cuz I don't want my ass kicked.

[Michael]

Wow! Can't wait to hear how this plays out.

[Gary Poole]

Oh how I wish I were with you. Living in the South for the past five years has learnt me how to kick some ass! I woulda punched the motherfucker right in the fucking face!

Good on ya, Brudda...

g

[Gary Poole]

Oh, then I would've hawked a loogie, scratched my nuts and grabbed a PBR!

xo

[Dan E]

Thanks, Gary! Wish you'd been there, too — if only to share a round of PBR with me!